


kalýpto

by sastrasantai



Category: Joker Game (Anime)
Genre: Gen, apparently i still need to inject melancholy into comedy, eeee I'm not dead, not fluff but still pretty light, warning for long ramblings from amari ossan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sastrasantai/pseuds/sastrasantai
Summary: Amari shares the delights and the challenges of his undercover missions, including the longest mission he had ever taken.This is the longer and original version of the fic published in the JG "Double Agent" zine. The story expands on the scenes that feature Amari and episode 7.





	kalýpto

**Author's Note:**

> kalýpto (Ancient Greek): to cover, to conceal, to deceive.

 

Once upon a time, a great man wrote that for an actor to create a convincing performance he must embody the truth of his actions, wherein an actor does not perform an act but rather becomes the act.

Acting, of course, is the foundation of any undercover operation: a capable spy must be as good at acting as he is at collecting intel. Just as actors become characters, spies must adopt a “cover,” that is, a new identity—and proceed to sketch out an entire lifetime for that identity: birth dates, memories, education, careers, aspirations and political leanings, and even so far as personality tics and peculiar hobbies. In order to create credible and human individuals, good actors require a great deal of imagination, flexibility, and understanding of humanity: how people feel, why people say certain things, why people behave in certain ways, and why people believe in the things they do. Each individual reflects these things in a myriad of words, gestures, and actions, which actors must be able to recognize and interpret, and in turn reenact them in minutiae when the script or situation calls for such. Actors must be ready to employ their mind, body, and speech to convey certain impressions to convince others that they are, in fact, the real deal.

The objective behind this is that acting must make you believe in something that is not true. In other words, acting creates “truths,” and actors and spies are all simply liars. While it is imperative that spies emulate the work of actors, how does a spy differ from an actor then, might you ask?

One, is your knowledge of the truth: you know when an actor is acting but you should not have a clue when a spy is acting. Two, is the intention of the act: actors act to gain your sympathy but spies tell lies for other—and possibly more sinister--intentions. As I am neither a man of faith or of his words, I certainly do not object to either acting or the telling of lies—I am a spy by profession after all!

However, I know that in telling the greatest lie of my life, I found myself in the longest undercover operation I had ever partaken in. To this day I sometimes wonder if I had made the correct decision or had even accomplished the mission I set out for myself. I realize, however, that there is no room for regret in this particular tale. It will be a long story but, shall we begin?

 

 

* * *

  

 

**Tokyo, 1939: Early spring**

One, two, one, two. Chin up, eyes forward. Back straight, chest outward. Arms must be kept at the sides without exaggerated swinging. In the green uniform of a soldier, you were sons of the nation and protectors of the empire, and your walk must be a reflection of your pride and training.

The advantage of the soldier uniform was that you could ask questions without being questioned. As I walked the streets in that very uniform, people looked away from me and quickly carried on with their business. That’s right, people did not want to get in trouble with soldiers. Disrespect a soldier and you just might face a beating or a knock on the door by the military police.

The cover allowed me to walk uninterrupted that very evening and I easily arrived at the destination without any problems. The rent house was plain with wooden pillars and blue shingles, a closed shop at the front and living quarters at the back and on the second floor. I passed the small garden at the side and entered through the back door as if I was a tenant. I did not even bother to mute the sound of my boots as I went up the rickety old steps, for a proud soldier would not make quiet entrance.

I knocked several times. Expecting no answer, I reached for a key, one that Hatano and Tazaki painstakingly (or easily, I wonder) copied from the original a few weeks ago, which smoothly opened the door.

Something black slipped out and brushed against my leg, and that instant I felt the hair on my neck rise as I prepared for counter attack—but the black thing quickly escaped down the stairs.

Hold on—I had seen that creature before.

“That cat…”

It was that stray cat that earlier messed with the Demon King’s class.

Well, well, it seemed I was not the only creature snooping around in this building. But oh my, blue paint splattered all over the floor and a ripped scroll on the desk? All the cat’s deeds even though they would suspect I was behind all this mess—that clumsy cat just made my work look sloppy!

Never mind, all I needed to do was retrieve the recording, which was right behind the wall with a hidden microphone. That was why the Agency instructed me to come here. By the time I get out of here I would smell terribly like paint, I would assume, but nobody would a question a soldier no matter if he reeked of booze or gunpowder.

Come to think of it, I should tell Fukumoto the cat was still alive and kicking since he was quite worried about the poor little creature. The cat was exactly as scaredy as Odagiri described. But black as its fur was, the cat would be perfectly camouflaged at night and in the shadows, ideal for sneaking around. And that cat even managed to sniff out a couple of rats that wanted to tear our Agency apart. Good job, kitty cat!

But please, never ever tell Miyoshi that I praised a cat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

**Tokyo, 1939: Mid spring**

 “I’ve never done anything bad!”

Oh no, you must certainly have.

“Why can you do such a ridiculous thing? I won’t forgive you for your incivility! I’ll contact my country immediately!”

And risk exposing your sorry derriere to the country who thought you could keep a secret? Be my guest, good Sir, be my guest.

Now, there were a lot of impressive things about Mr. John Gordon: his thunderous voice, his thriving business, and his total obsession with Japanese traditions. While his mix and match of Japanese and English would make any Japanese soldier tremble in confusion (or rage), Gordon’s otherwise proper etiquette would elicit sympathy from the common folk. A fine actor, Gordon was, but not the smartest man by any means. You see, no spy would still calmly continue his operations after he had fallen suspect to the authorities, but I suppose a lot of arrogance also went into that balding head of his.

On the other hand, our Sakuma was probably not the finest actor, but was he smart enough to pull off a cover as a Military Police Captain?

You see, the trick of undercover work was to pick a cover that would suit oneself, because no matter how good one’s acting is, one cannot completely overturn their personality or upbringing in mere months. Education, culture, and even accents, things that had been ingrained by birth and society, could leave traces large and small, and a spy must be aware of his own unique traits before he were to try and replace them with a new identity. Since it would be impossible to fully erase oneself, if a spy were to pick a cover that was credible to his own circumstances and upbringing, his cover would be far more solid.

What about the students at the Agency who presumably had never been in the army? Could they pass off believably as soldiers? Perhaps our movements pale compared to army elites but we certainly did not spend a semester being drilled like soldiers just for the fun of it. We stood as motionless as statues in the simmering heat of Gordon’s backyard, fallen in the perfect soldiers’ line, flat-faced and unperturbed by his roaring complaints.

Certainly, Sakuma the soldier acting as a soldier was not at all far-fetched. He stood ramrod straight as he faced the raging Gordon, unafraid to use his voice to question the man or to command us underlings, even though he was probably more used to taking orders than giving them. Still, from my vantage point behind him and Miyoshi, I could tell by the copious sweat on his nape that Sakuma was nervous.

_Yes, you must have a lot going on in that mind of yours, don’t you, Mr. Soldier? How truly and unexpectedly difficult this cowardly act must be for you._

You see, while being oneself may be the most natural thing to do that it would require almost no thinking, acting required at least two levels of consciousness: one must simultaneously think as the character he was portraying, keeping in mind the characters’ attitude, personality, motivation, while also maintaining a hidden level of awareness that he was not the character _and_ that he had other goals to accomplish by masquerading as this character.

That day I stood as a soldier but my mission was not that of a soldier. The same went for all of us but it was each to his own: I could only focus on my own acting and expect that others would do the same.

Meanwhile, Miyoshi had walked up between Sakuma and Gordon. The negotiation between them went rather suspiciously quickly until Gordon finally stepped aside to let us in, not bothering to hide his sly smile.

Well then, how would we take this acting to the next level?

We marched into his house. We stomped our way in, cracking noises over the wooden floor. We split into different rooms and called up a storm. With the sound of drawers sliding, paper ripping, books flying, china crashing, and tables turning, it was the very opposite of a silent infiltration. Quick, effective and ruthless, that was how military police officers should behave.

I opened a closet and ran my hand through the folds of fabric. I threw the contents out of one closet and the next one. As I went through these motions, I wondered: where would a man like Gordon hide his ciphers but where would a military police officer dared to look? It was a fascinating little thought experiment.

After enough damage had been done, it was time to regroup and report. But before that, I pulled myself out of anyone’s sight. My head was all itchy and sweaty under that stiff military cap so I combed it. I was starting to understand the practicality of a buzzcut then, but I would certainly lose my credibility if I looked rather like an egghead. I fixed the cap, made sure not too much hair was showing since it would betray my true identity, and ran outside.

Oops, it looked like Jitsui and Odagiri had arrived before me. I positioned myself next to them, saluted, and declared, “The drawers are clear!”

The rest of us, of course, reported no differently, and suddenly I felt as if the humid summer haze had turned into an impending thunderstorm.

“What’s the matter, Captain-san? Is it showtime?” Gordon suggested with glee, as Sakuma gritted his teeth.

Ah, what an interesting turn of events, I thought. It looked like Miyoshi had cooked up a little plan that he did not bother to share with us—a little plan to put Sakuma into deep trouble. Or was it Yuuki’s plan all along? I could not tell the difference.

Then Sakuma sat down to prepare for his death.

I could not remember exactly how I felt as I watched the actual soldier among us sat and unsheathed his sword. Was it trepidation? Was I alarmed that we would be involved in a suicide scene? Something that would cause problems later with the military higher ups?

Practicalities aside, was I actually excited at the notion of watching a man slice his guts out? Did I care for this man’s feelings at all? Or had I simply gone numb and insanely pragmatic with my own actions?

I could not tell what the fellow students beside me were thinking either. We stood silently and watched, refraining from acting in any way that was not unlike a military police officer. A good spy must be able to read himself as well as he read others—but at the time, though my acting was almost perfect, I was just simply following along in somebody’s puppet show.

But good lord, was it hard not to smile or sigh or react in the slightest when Sakuma finally put his sword down and shouted, “Back of the imperial portrait!”

At that time, I dearly wished I could paint so I could have a portrait of Gordon’s mortified expression for my grandchildren’s possessions. And for once Miyoshi was happily obliging with a soldier’s orders as he ran to get the ciphers.

After this was over, I was going to give Miyoshi a good earful for turning a simple job into an almost hara-kiri show. We did not come here prepared for that particular scenario but, well, undercover work always had its surprises—and that was the most thrilling aspect of this job.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  **Tokyo, 1939: late spring**

It should be obvious to top undercover spies that a suit would be best. A quintessential symbol of the modern man, there were many benefits to buying yourself a finely tailored three-piece, and while not the least of them is a classy and flattering image, one of vital value is the benefit of versatility. A man in a suit could be anything: a secretary out for a stroll in between meetings, a wealthy executive hunting for nightly excitements, an esteemed professor on his way home, or simply a man looking to impress his beloved. Certainly, the feel and cut of the cloth could speak volumes on the man’s fortunes, but a simple glance at a decent suit is sufficient to tell you one must be a capable man!

It was a shame the agency only had limited allowance for haircuts and suit orders. Well, no matter—I had other means of generating an income.

To be clear, I was not implying embezzlement or robbery of any sort and certainly not pickpocketing! Though I would admit some of us were more gifted in that area than others…

I meant gifted as in having dexterous hands—not as in having the penchant for petty thieving!

Besides, stealing in a class full of detective-wannabes and trained fighters would hardly be wise.

Where was I going with this?

Ah, yes—the undercover suit. Well then, what persona shall I adopt in this suit today? Who can I be today and what can I do? I tell you, being a spy sometimes was like playing a child’s make believe. It was a game of the highest order: it needed a generous use of imagination and impersonation with the addition of the gambling the highest stakes. You could be dealing with information that can decide the outcome of military operations and topple entire regimes. It was a strategic game for liars and master planners to seize over powers and territories—truly, what kind of man do not tremble with excitement at this kind of gamble?

I kid, I was not allowed to tremble. I confess this was my own individualistic take on the profession, as I am certain there were other spies who took the job for other reasons such as money and patriotism and such. However, would you not think those motivations are rather mundane? I, for one, enjoyed pretending to be something I was not so I could gain some information or object that nobody could have obtained otherwise.

For instance, on one occasion I took on the identity of a Japanese correspondent of The Daily Telegraph. I had my suit, camera, notes, and fake business card prepared. The business mission was to interview English men living near Karl Schneider’s residence, while the covert objective was to uncover any possible connection between them and Schneider’s murder. Although this operation was not my own mission, it was an interesting case of a friend’s and I figured he could use a little help.

That aside, it would be fun to pretend I was a reporter for The Daily Telegraph—since mentioning the title alone can get the gossipy English types to spill and the intellectual English types to bat an eye. Of course, my severely underutilized (yet trivial) knowledge of Great Britain would be of use in this case—and I always wanted to try acting with a British accent!

 

 

After a few short nights and some amusing “Telegraph” interviews later, I invited Odagiri for a drink. Alas, confidentiality rules and cash (specifically the lack of it) barred us from ye good olde pub, so the cafeteria had to do. But the poor man looked more thoughtful than thirsty when I poured him some whisky.

“So, I had an interesting time investigating Schneider’s English neighbors,” I said, “but before I get your hopes up, I didn’t find relevant leads to the case.”

“I see.” Odagiri replied, looking neither disappointed nor surprised.

“Well, I’m sure it won’t be long until you or the others find some clues.”

He took a sip, which was as good as a nod for this sort of man.

“The English-speaking neighbors around Schneider were, let’s see, a retired and alcoholic sailor, a poor couple whose husband sells paintings, and an elderly teacher. Any of them could be English informants who might have been spying on Scneider but in my judgment none of them are capable of murder. They’re all just ordinary people trying to live decent, uninteresting lives.”

I tried to recall what was written in my notes—the whisky made it a little difficult.

“Let’s see, what did they say about Herr Schneider that was extraordinary, huh—his neighbors said he was rather friendly ‘for a German’ and his English was not half-bad, which we know already. He did not leave or return to his place at a regular schedule as expected from a reporter. He was a gin and tonic guy, which was rather odd. And though he seemed to be fond of his Japanese lover and frequently had her over, it was not unusual for other women to visit—sometimes for a night.”

Odagiri winced slightly at the last piece of information.

“Basically,” I concluded, “apart from Schneider possibly having multiple lovers at the same time, I don’t have much to offer you.”

“No, that was very helpful, thank you.” Odagiri responded politely.

“My pleasure. I mean, I enjoyed talking to those people.”

“I see.”

Odagiri seemed to be mulling over something important. Then, probably out of discomfort of not having any conversation topic, he finally said something.

“I hear you broke up with your woman again.” He said.

Ah, changing the subject to me, now?

“Yeah. No point in staying with one in too long.” I told him.

Odagiri seemed a little wistful as he looked down. “‘Everything is beautiful in passing,’ huh.”

“What was that? Were we talking about women or something else here?”

“Oh, no. I just thought of that saying for some reason.”

“You certainly like to say such sad things, Odagiri.”

“I apologize…”

“I never said it’s a bad thing.”

Odagiri put his glass down. “It’s just, I wonder what I will think of this when it has passed. Will I think that what I have been doing is beautiful, that it is a good thing? Or do I only think so because it has ended and I’ve chosen to forget how I felt up to this point?”

I sighed. “You say such sad things,” I said, “but I can’t fault you for being so honest.”

“Amari, you don’t seem to be bothered by anything.”

“It’s just that I choose not to be bothered, you see. Many things have happened in the past, too many in fact, that I just don’t bother to remember anymore.”

Looking back, I may have been reassuring him as much as I was reassuring myself.

“You see, Odagiri, don’t remember the past or worry about the future too much. Living in the moment is the key to enjoying your life—and enjoying your women, of course.”

And then Odagiri gloriously choked, right then, right there!

“Rather than worry about me, Odagiri, shouldn’t you be more worried about yourself? About time you get a girlfriend, isn’t it? Want me to introduce you to women? I know plenty who are—”

“No, I’m good really, Amari!” He said, with very red ears.

I laughed. But perhaps I was really laughing at myself.

Unable to go back in time and undecided about my own future, I was simply following the currents, sailing wherever the ocean winds would take me, enjoying the journey as I went along. Who was it that said life is like an ocean voyage? Only in that kind of journey can one find such boundless freedom.

I refused to drown in my own thoughts—my voyage still had miles to go without an end in sight, and I cannot be weighed or swayed by the past. There was only one way to go: onwards!

 

 

* * *

 

 

  **San Francisco, 1940: Spring**

One of the most tedious aspects about undercover work was the preparation. The moment I received a file and a mission from Yuuki, I had to think of a plan: build a cover from scratch and gather as much information for the cover as possible. A good spy needed a good cover: a name and a title, but also a history, a personality, and a set of knowledge and skills relevant for the objective of a mission—low profile enough to blend in but high enough to get myself to where I needed to be. I wondered sometimes: do all actors and writers put this much thought into preparing their characters?

A few weeks later I had prepared a most wonderful cover: Utsumi Osamu. 37 years old. Civil Engineer. Born in Fukuoka but lived most of his adult life in Tokyo. Employed by the White Wave Engineering Enterprise. A loyal employee of 15 years, over time he rose up in ranks at the company and did less technical fieldwork and more in project and business management. His hobbies include cooking and board games and puzzles, though whether he was proficient at any of them was another story. All in all, Utsumi was neither a complicated person nor character to play. He was not a soldier, so I needed not to worry about any special gait or straitlaced habits (like saluting in a suit and waking up early—spare me from the mornings, for goodness sake). Utsumi was a Japanese man in foreign lands so I did not have to vary his Japanese accent, though I had to be careful not to seem comfortable speaking English (engineers weren’t known for their language skills, after all). He had no wife or children, so I did not have to make them up. He could not stand out too much, so I did not have to design any eccentricities, except that he was overly excited about his trip to America and bought himself a white two-piece and a bow tie.

However, the story was still incomplete. To make Utsumi Osamu believable, I had to acquire counterfeit construction contracts and read no less than fourteen engineering books—fourteen! Surely I could not pass as an engineer unless I could recite a formula or two or a hundred? I knew that as a spy I should hold interest in anything and everything, but I tell you, squeezing all that knowledge into the grey matter could make one sicker than the sea! There was a whole treatise on maritime laws and endless volumes on science and engineering techniques, and the journey from Tokyo to San Francisco was so long I had no option but to finish all those books. I memorized them, as I memorized the file the Agency gave me, and destroyed them all as soon as I landed—except for one exquisitely illustrated dictionary of marine life, which I had no heart to destroy. That book at least would not give away my identity, I figured.

Of course, for preparations I also caught up with resources that could help me comprehend my target, such as the history of British war and intelligence, code cracking, and crossword creations. I needed to think like Utsumi Osamu but I also need to think like Louis McCloud. I had to consider his history and figure out his future—what would he be doing, what plans could he have in mind, and what kind of things did he regret about or hope for, I wonder?

On the other hand, the most tedious aspect of undercover work was, well, waiting. Waiting for immigration. Waiting for formal travel documents. Waiting in line to board the ship. Waiting for the ship to arrive at the destination. After arrival, waiting for any tip that the target was on the move. After getting on the move, waiting for the target to show up and reveal himself. Waiting, waiting, _waiting_. I was not an impatient man by most standards and San Francisco was a beautiful and misty city with breathtaking hills—but I was not sent to America to grow white hairs, no?

Therefore, when I finally boarded the ship heading to Japan, I felt a sense that something was going to happen. Utsumi Osamu may be boarding the ship but it was this Japanese spy that was getting to work. I was quite confident in my preparations but still I was cautious; in this line of work nothing could ever fully prepare us for all the possibilities: death, capture, betrayal, utter failure—a good spy must be aware of these outcomes without failing to focus on the mission at hand.

On June 21, 1940, N.Y.K. Tokimaru voyage no. 158 set sail from the bays of San Francisco towards the Hawaiian Islands, with 74 passengers, 12 saloon officers, and a dozen other crews, and one Louis McCloud under an alias. By the time Tokimaru docked in Tokyo this mission would be over—I would wait and prepare for another assignment, adopt another name, and embark on another journey.

What would that be, I wonder?

 

 

* * *

 

 

  **Honolulu, 1940: Summer**

I suppose I surprised myself with the outcome of this particular mission.

If I had returned to Japan with a failed mission I would incur the wrath of The Boss. If I had just remained in America and conveniently forget all about this mission, I would incur the wrath of The Boss and The Boss’ Boss (that would be _the_ Japanese government) and risk being hunted by an agent in the future. But had I succeeded and return to Japan, I would wait to be assigned to another mission. All outcomes were straightforward and simple except for this complication that I found myself in.

Now, the mission to stop Louis McCloud from entering Japan did technically succeed, since one cyanide-laced and very dead man cannot fling himself across the Pacific, he can no longer inflict cerebral hemorrhage among the Imperial Army’s precious codebreakers.

However, since I happened to find myself entangled with a child and a dog, the outcome of this mission had drastically changed, and I must now list all possible options and decide on safest bet.

For one, certainly I could waltz into the Agency with a toddler and a terrier in tow, and proceed to unilaterally anoint Yuuki as the holy sugar grandfather?

Alas, rash as I was to take the kid and the mutt in, foolish I was not. Raising a British toddler in my hostile, poor, and doggedly patriotic homeland was out of the question. Bringing her back to her family in England seemed like the correct course except that I had no financial or legal means to do so. If I send her alone to England it would be too risky and too far away, but if only she were a little older…

I looked at the bundle on the bed, who had cried herself for three hours straight and finally collapsed into exhaustion at the inn. All that time the loyal guard dog was right beside her.

I suppose I had the option of going back to San Francisco to drop them at an orphanage. With a little payment and persuasion I was certain they would take her in. Then I could be absolved of any childrearing responsibilities and continue the carefree life I lived back in Japan. Rationally speaking, that was the best option for the three of us.

A tiny head appeared from under the blanket, with puffy eyelids and a wrinkled dress. The pup raised his head in response and whined.

“Mama,” the little creature wailed. “Where’s Mama?”

Ah, this again.

“Is Mama here yet? I’m scared.”

I watched her face turn red.

“Uncle, is my Mama coming soon?” Her blue eyes welled with tears again.

I sighed and pat her head, if only that small measure of comfort was sufficient, but she pulled away. My lack of answers must have sown the seeds of distrust in that little mind of hers. Even children can understand things in their own frightening ways.

“Come, little one, staying in a room all day can make you sick,” I told her, “now let’s wash your face and we’ll go see the dolphins again.”

It did not take us long to find the sea from the inn. The sky was turning a brilliant orange and there were children and their parents and grandparents at the beach enjoying the afternoon, some looked like the tanned and friendly locals, some looked like me, and some looked more like Emma and her people. The mood was peaceful and we walked quietly down the shore. The little girl followed me at the pace of snail so I picked her up again. In my arms I noticed she was not looking at the waves, but at the shadows on the sand, even as I pointed out the strange trees and the beautiful flowers of the island.

I knew then I finally had to tell her. I supposed the time was as good as any, but I dreaded the moment anyway. “You know, your Mother—”

Her head lifted a bit—she was listening.

“Your Mama had left on another ship,” I said calmly, “and I don’t think she’s coming back.”

Explaining things to children was a difficulty on another level entirely. Good lord, how could I find the right words for her to understand?

“Your Mama would love to come back and see you. But she had to do a very important job. She had a very important mission, you see, but she was afraid you’ll get hurt if you come along, so she had to leave you be. She thought that it was the best for you.”

The child turned her face away and said not a word. It felt as if the weight on my arms had grown ten times heavier.

_I’m sorry, little one. You got caught up in the intricate lies us adults, such cruelty that we created in our selfishness, before you could even understand a thing._

My goodness, this was going to be difficult. I could just drop her in an orphanage and be done with it. I could even leave her in the middle of a busy port, or in a crowded market, or in some big old town, and let lady luck take over from there. Never mind that good things rarely happen to orphaned children. Who would know? Who would blame me?

“Things are going to be difficult for you now,” I told her even though I was not sure she was listening. “But even when Papa and Mama are not around and things are difficult for you, you have to be a brave, and you have to stay kind and be a good girl.”

Soon we would leave this island and I would no longer have to see her again, soon we would board different ships and leave on different journeys.

Yet my mind was a mess of hurricane. I could be kind to this child now and proceed to leave her anywhere I wished, let her deal alone with the confusion and separation, lead her into the whimsy winds of fate. The world was changing rapidly, that much I knew, but in a world where everything was new and unfamiliar and turning to darkness awfully quickly, what would it mean to give a child some measure of stability? What would it mean for her, for me?

What would it mean to be there for someone who only knew that love meant loss and goodbyes?

What would change, if only someone had been there for me in the same way?

What was it like to live in a constantly solitary state, to live without ever trusting or depending on another person? To live the life I was living but as a mere child?

I did not know the answer to these things and I could not pretend I did.

I weighed the tiny body in my arms, weighed all the innocence and the burden and the unknown all at once, and I came to a decision.

“Emma,” I called. “Emma, look at me and listen. Emma.”

Very slowly, she turned to me, and her eyes finally met mine.

Such a pained look for someone far too young. I made sure I had her attention and spoke very slowly.

I told her, “Emma, your Mama will not be around anymore, but I’ll be here.”

Her ocean blue eyes grew wide as the sea.

“Emma, starting today, I will be taking care of you.”

A small part of myself was angry. A small part of myself shouted and rebelled. I never expected things to unfold in this way. Never had I wanted or sought this kind of responsibility, which seemed too great to bear for someone who only knew how to lie and act and satisfy his own desires.

But I had to smile. If I showed her my—not unreasonable or inappropriate, but wholly self-centered—denial and insecurities, then the child would become afraid. What worth was I as a spy if I could not become a figure she could trust?

Truly, no matter the coursework or rehearsals, no matter the hours of acting or planning, no matter how many lies or levels of consciousness I had cultivated, or books I read or bluffs I fabricated, could have prepared me for _this_. I had signed up to be a spy, not somebody’s guardian or a father. But my mission was decided then: if I wanted to be a father, I better stop the bluffing and pretending, and I had to start acting like one.

“Emma, the truth is before your Mama went away, she told me to look after you.” I told her in the most convincing voice I could muster. “So from now on, I will be your father.”

“My…father?”

“Yes, so uh—I know you have your Papa who’s married to your Mama and, well, they both have left you in my care. So, you and me—and Frate too—we are all going to find ourselves a good place here and make this place home.”

“Home?” Emma repeated. “Here?”

“Yes, Emma. This is home now.”

“Where are we?”

“We are on an island called Hawaii. Your new home.”

“But what about Grandma and Grandpa?”

“They live very, very far away, Emma, but I’m sure they will be happy to let us stay here. Your Mama will be happy if you stay here too. And I’ll make sure you have enough to eat and go to school and meet other children—and enough time to play with Frate.”

I heard a small bark of an agreement from the loyal pup.

“And you’ll always have me.” I added, as I ran my hand through her hair and fixed her little ribbon, which had become crooked in the wind, and smiled at her.

Emma did not smile back. But when she rested her warm head against my neck I felt the tension in her tiny body slip away, as if carried by the strong ocean winds. We kept walking as the sky turned dark and the lights flickered from the little houses on the shore, nestled between the palm trees and the pulses of the waves, beckoning at us to stay.

“Emma, what shall we have for dinner?” I asked. “Oh, that’s right—have you had pineapples, Emma? Pineapples?”

“Pie…apples?” She lifted her head in confusion.

“Pineapples. They are sweet and funny-looking but I think you’d like them.”

“Pin-apples.”

“Let’s have some tonight.” I laughed. “By the way Emma, you can call me Uncle if that’s easier for you.”

“Hmm.”

“Or you can call me whatever you like. We have the whole night, the whole week, and the whole year, to decide on what we want to do, together.”

“Okay.” She said and smiled.

It was then that I finally understood: the most difficult part of undercover work was the lie you had to keep telling your loved ones. I could not tell Emma the truth about her mother. I could not tell her about the nature of my job or my past, nor the kinds of people I had to work with. As time went on and Emma grew up, I hoped she would forget about this day, so she could live a life fully in the present.

Thus, I had to prepare myself a new cover: a new name, a new history, a new life. Utsumi Osamu must be forgotten—this new man had come to Hawaii with his family in search of a new life. This time the mission was different: I would adopt new identity for purely personal reasons and I was prepared to keep it till I turn to ashes and meet the maker if there ever was one.

Tomorrow, I would look for a job, preferably one that paid well but keep me out of the military spotlight. I had enough background knowledge to apply to be a journalist or an engineer—might as well since I read plenty of books for that. I could be an animal trainer or an acting coach, I certainly have had the experience. Tomorrow I would pick up a listing of places to rent, ideally with two rooms and a backyard, and not too far from the sea. Tomorrow I would show Emma the fantastic illustrated book of marine life that I had been keeping in my suitcase and figure out if Frate’s any fun at playing catch. Tomorrow there would be fish and pineapples to eat. Someday, when the war is over, perhaps we would sail back to America and travel to different states without worrying about where we came from or where we were going. But for now, this island would be the perfect place for us to hide, blend in, and start a living.

If protecting this life meant I had to maintain an act, so be it. I was a liar and an actor and I had no qualms about doing both for the rest of my life. I was not trying to be irresponsible or inconsiderate, I simply chose the best version of a lie, one that would allow us all to live and survive

And so the three of us shall stay here in this small island, far from either of our homelands, and live a life of lies that no one else could.

I had set my anchor and looked towards the future.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> kalýpto is the root word for the nymph Calypso, who stalled the hero Odysseus from his homecoming after the Trojan war, by keeping him on her island for seven years. In this story, it was Emma who kept Amari from returning to Japan after his mission, though it was him who enchanted her to stay in the island out of kindness.
> 
> We all like to headcanon they'd go back to the Agency together and have a great time with all the boys, but I think that's quite unrealistic. I also don't think about what could happen to them after Pearl Harbor...lol.
> 
> Anyway, my Tumblr is no more thanks to my government's N SFW-site blocking spree, so find me on Twitter under the terassaras handle!


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